Spooky -Memoirs of an MI5 Case Officier
by Captain Wilde
Summary: A first excerpt of a memoir of skulduggery, bad behaviour and poor taste . Set at MI5, Christmas ten years ago.


The narrative that follows is based upon an incomplete set of hand written notes discovered by the author concealed in a plastic bag stuffed behind the rafters in a stable block on a farm recently purchased by a friend. The events to which the documents in part refer have been pieced together by the author based on interviews with those who are still alive or indeed willing to talk about the events of the time. The names of a number of participants have been changed for obvious reasons.

**Chapter 1 Christmas Cheer and Guns**

Due to problems with the tube that morning Pawser Bingham approached Thames House from the river side. Having sheltered in the lee of the building since his exit from the underground station, he stepped out onto Lambeth Bridge and caught the icy blast of the wind whipping down the course of the river. Holding his hat down with one hand and clutching his leather attaché case close to his chest he strode as quickly across the bridge bending his body against the raw wind.

Through the gloom and swirling snow Thames House gradually loomed up out of the swirling river disappearing and reappearing like a mirage out of the blinding blizzard. For a moment the top two floors of the fortress like structure that was MI5's headquarters became visible .Its huge barred windows throwing out penetrating beams of light into the gloom.

Having crossed the bridge and walked down Millbank, Pawser passed under the huge archway displaying the services motto 'Regnum Defende'- the Defence of the Realm into the majestic portico and through the heavy galleoned doors. Once in reception he joined bustling queues of staff pushing their way through the turnstiles. Having swiped his pass he broke away from the queues forming for the lifts, nodded to one of the security staff, before descending the small spiral staircase to the basement.

Pawser's office was opposite the training rooms, wedged between the cleaner's storage area and the Gent's loos. Strictly speaking it was not actually his office as he shared it with Dirk and Killerman but he liked to think that as the most senior of the three he could justifiably clam it as his. The tarnished brass plaque on the door announced that he was now entering the office of the Liaison Officers Sorting, Evaluation and Research Section; better known to many members of the less erudite members of staff as the LOSERS department. Another little plaque under this invited potential visitors to knock before entering.

That morning Dirk was already in the office, as he invariably was having caught the first train up from Colchester. At his desk against the left wall he hunched over his PC hammering away at his keyboard he barely raised his eyes in acknowledgement at Pawser's entry. Killerman seated at his desk opposite Dirk had arranged himself in typical fashion, with chair thrust back as far as it could go against the pockmarked plaster wall so he could comfortably rest his highly polished brogues on the end of the table in order that his knees could support a substantial hardback volume of The Snipers Annual Review which currently held his attention. He raised one hand to Pawser in casual acknowledgement and returned to his book.

The little radio nestled between the kettle, chipped cups and empty biscuit barrel on a rusted metal filing cabinet was playing Christmas songs with occasional interruptions from a tired sounding DJ.

Weaving his way across the room avoiding the various irregular piles of coloured files and journals spread across the floor Pawser paused to shrug off his coat, shake out the snow from its folds and hang it on the battered wooden coat stand alongside Dirks alarmingly shiny suit jacket. Removing his ushanka hat he carefully flicked the snow off its fur and balanced it on top of the stand. Turning sideways he shimmied his not inconsiderable bulk between the filing cabinet and his desk which occupied pride of place against the far wall. Stopping for a moment to pick up the cup strategically placed underneath a leaking radiator valve he reached up to open the tiny street level window as far as the scaffolding outside would allow and poured out its rusted contents before replacing it on the floor .Then squeezing between the wall and his desk he was able to pour himself into his battered faux leather swivel chair.

Pawser's desk had been positioned so its occupant was best placed to see who was entering the room from the corridor outside .This meant that it carried with it the dubious responsibility of both watchdog and guardian, a responsibly Pawser took somewhat seriously. It entailed making a quick assessment of the seniority of the person as they were entering the room , which if below Section Head would result in a casual wave of Pawser's hand indicting to Dirk and Killerman that the entree was a mere flunky allowing them to return to whatever causal undertaking they were doing. If, however this level of seniority was exceeded he would snap ,' I'll have that report now Dirk if you don't mind,' at which point Dirk would pick up the file that remained permanently on his desk for such purpose and pass it across while Killerman would drop whatever he was doing and look busy. On the few occasions he was not able to judge the entrants' seniority a quick cough into his hand indicated it was every man for himself.

Having settled in behind his desk Pawser began making a short assessment of the laborious tasks that faced him in the day ahead. A brief rummage through the files piled on his desk revealed nothing pressing .All had urgent memos' clipped to their fronts but he knew from experience that they could probably wait until later in the week .After all he could always blame the slowness on another department should the need arise. Nobody ever chased anyway.

Having got the measure of the day he was able to lean back in his chair and engage his colleagues on his favourite subject. 'It said on the Shipping Forecast this morning we are expecting Serbian weather conditions early next week.' He fished a packet of biscuits out of a drawer, laid out two chocolate digestives on the table and reached across to flip the switch on the kettle.

'Uh huh,' replied Killerman in a tone that indicated anything less than an impending tsunami sweeping in across the English Channel was unlikely to distract him from his reading.

'From the Urals. Are the Urals in Siberia, I guess they are?'Pawser said in an attempt to disengage Killerman from his reading

'I suppose,' said Killerman turning a page slowly without raising his eyes.

Pawser fretted a moment over the English Breakfast tea or the Earl Grey but then on a whimsy plumped for the Lapsing and splashed some hot water into the teacup. 'Biting cold apparently, a wind chill factor of minus nine.'

Seeing rather irritatingly that Killerman was not to be distracted Pawser decided to change tack. 'What is that you're reading Killerman, something interesting?'

'What's that old man?' Killerman muttered distractedly.

'Every year it's the same ,we run into December, there's a cold spell, the train drivers go on strike and I spend hours and hours plodding up and down the platform flapping my arms like an angry seagull trying to stop freezing my knackers off,' moaned Pawser.

Killerman considered this for a moment. Killerman was ex job, tall, muscular with a big brisling moustache, a no1 haircut and sticky out ears that made him look like Mr Potato Head. By force of habit he scratched the five a clock shade on his chin making a slow rasping sound he seemed to enjoy so much. He was remarkably hirsute with tufts of hair sticking out from under his collar and little black wisps crawling out from under his cuffs. Pawser considered it was quite likely on a full moon Killerman did not venture far from his house which was in a rather remote location in Oxfordshire. In itself this was a blessing as it made it easier for Pawser to find a reason not to socialise with him outside of work.

Killerman with a sigh of resignation and acceptance that an early morning ritual had not been observed put down his volume and looked at Pawser across the desks. 'What you need Pawser is some decent gear, something to keep the cold out. Look at that old camel coat you've got there .It looks like that old fox stole my old aunt Nonnie used to wear, worn almost through to the skin.' Killerman stretched back in his chair and pulled the sleeves of his tweed jacket down his wrists and straightened his army tie.'Good old Aunt Nonnie, richer than Croesus and madder than old Uncle George and Uncle Gilbert put together .She used to love fox hunting, absolutely loved it. When she was too old to ride she used to put a racoon hat on Horace and make him run round the herb garden while she sat on the veranda in her wheelchair taking pot shots at him with uncles 12 bore.'

'I'm not sure that would go down too well with the RSPCA these days.' said Pawser.

'RSPCA?' Killerman looked confused. 'Oh I see what you mean. No Horace was the butler. Good old Horace, a real stalwart he was, loved the family, been with them as long as...' Killerman paused for a moment temporarily lost for words as he attempted to count back the years.

'Syphilis?' interjected Dirk looking up momentarily from his screen.

Killerman stared hard at Dirk and after a moment continued, 'As long as I could remember was what I was going to say. Anyway, he used to sneak in on the right behind the privet hedge, break cover and scuttle over to the orangery, pause just long enough to let Nonnie get off two shots and then he was off down to the orchard while she reloaded. Once there he would chuck out a few apples to draw her fire and scamper over to the vine. He could put on a surprising turn of speed for his age you know. He would hunker down in the vine as Aunt would never shoot anything that has been in the family so long, Horace excepted of course. He'd wait a few moments and when he felt she was losing interest it was the last sprint down to the back gate where he was safe.'

'And you were there when she did this?' Pawser interrupted.

'I lived with her from when I was seven. I used to reload the shotgun for her; she found it difficult at her age, arthritis. Anyway it couldn't go on of course, one day she clipped him. Masterful shot ,got him just between the sage and the onions , must have been at least 100 yards .They took Horace off to hospital and he came back six months later , lost a leg, gangrene. '

'Can't have been the same man after an experience like that I'd imagine.'

'No certainly not, I should think it halved his time from the vine to the gate. It was the crutch that slowed him down .Nonnie gave it all up shortly after. Said it wasn't sport any more. Mind you it worked out well for him in the end .When she died she left him the house, the estate and her art collection. Horace threw me out of the house the ungrateful little git, seemed to think I'd encouraged her with the shooting thing. All I got was the shotgun and two Ming vases that stood either side of the fireplace in the drawing room. She couldn't stand them. '

'Worth anything?' asked Pawser trying to retrieve his biscuit which he had inadvertently dropped in his tea.

'Well that was my first thought. I needed the money for a deposit on a flat and shortly after she snuffed it the Antiques Road Show came to Egerby Hall just down the road from me. So I took them along .When I produced them I could see the production team exchanging knowing looks and they immediately sent off for the porcelain expert. The next thing I know I'm sitting next to their specialist chappy, a bow tied buffoon with a monocle and in front of a large crowd of onlookers being filmed by the TV crew. Lights camera action and all that. He picked them up, turned them upside down, rambled on a bit about provenance and all that and said in the right condition they were worth millions, priceless! You could feel the frission of excitement in the crowd behind me. Then he told me mine were fakes and were worth maybe two hundred quid and said he was sure that the value didn't matter to me having inherited them from a close relative he was sure I never consider selling anyway.'

'Too bad .Bit of a bummer eh?'

'Can't say it went down too well with me old man, led down the garden path and all that,' mused Killerman,' When I hit him he flipped over the back of his chair and rolled all the way to the bottom of the Haw-Haw.' Killerman sat back smugly and folded his arms. 'You may have seen the episode .It was the first Road Show to go out with a warning 'contains scene of violence'. That was apparently for the Songs of Praise crowd which was on just before. Never watched it of course .Can't stand the program.'

'Whore, Whore?' having returned to the interrogation of his PC Dirk rejoined the conversation his interest clearly piqued.

'The bit between the formal gardens and the open grazing land, to keep the livestock out. Nonnie had one at her house.'

'I know what a Haw Haw is thank you, 'said Dirk,' we had something like that when I was young .It was the bit of old grass that lay between cracked paving slabs with the rusted barbeque on it and the bit at the bottom were my mum used to leave my sisters in their prams. We did have some chicken wire round the sandpit though to keep Bollocks from crapping in it.'

'Bollocks?'

'Our Bulldog.'

'Well,'observed Killerman,' although you make it sound all rather less than salubrious at least you were bought up with your family. My parents dumped me with my aunt when I was seven and I hardly ever saw them. They went off to Morocco to set up a hippy commune and the only time they came back was when Nonnie died and they thought they would have to sort out a new school for me. By then I was six foot three, twenty two years old and in the Police Force. That's what it's like being bought up in a loveless environment.'

'Loveless? 'said Dirk, ' I was bought up in a three bed council home with six elder sisters, a mother who was out all night , a bulldog called Bollocks and a various assortment of men I would meet over breakfast some of whom I had to call Dad until they were replaced. On any one night there was more love going on in our house than a Parisian brothel. I spent three years while I was at school having to sleep on the lounge sofa barely getting any sleep as my sisters dragged in any guy off the street who was up for it. I went through school totally knackered with a chronic back problem.'

'At least you had a dog that loved you,' retorted Killerman rather shortly.

'That bloody dog .I had to take him down the park every day after school. I'd let him off the lead and off he'd go to shag anything he could find and I'd end up chasing the little bastard around the park shouting Bollocks, Bollocks trying to get him back. All the people who lived around the park remembered me as that little hyperactive kid from the council estate with a chronic case of touretts.'

'Well just so you both know I had a perfectly pleasant upbringing in Guildford in a big house with loving parents .I don't know why but when I tell people that they tends to be an uncomfortable silence as if they begrudge me a happy childhood, 'said Pawser in an attempt to break the loveless impasse.

There was a long uncomfortable silence .Killerman suddenly found an article that caught his eye while Dirk ducked behind his computer screen and began thumping the keys again. Pawser sighed and looked at the paint peeling from the ceiling and the large damp patch that was making a stand in the far corner of the room. He noticed rather alarmingly that Killerman had laid his revolver on the desk in front of him and was now idly spinning it round and round in an absentminded way whilst reading his book. This lucky dip version of Russian roulette had left the gun barrel pointing directly at Pawser's midriff across the room.

'Do you mind Killerman,' Pawser said motioning towards the gun.

'Don't worry old man,' said Killerman without looking up from his book, 'the safety's on.'

'That's what you said after you shot that copper at Special Branch,' Pawser ventured.

Killerman lowered his book and glared at Pawser. 'Actually I didn't shoot him, otherwise he would not still be here. And the internal investigation exonerated me of any wrong doing. '

'Come on Killerman it was a Special Branch investigation. When don't they exonerate any of their own. You could be the man behind the grassy knoll holding a smoking rifle and a picture of J.F. Kennedy with a bulls- eye drawn on his forehead stuffed in your pocket. As long as you produced a Special Branch warrant card the worse you could ever get is an early retirement on full pension.' Pawser glanced across to Dirk for support but he appeared on the verge of discovering the Elixir of Life so was not to be distracted. 'Either way it doesn't make me comfortable to see you playing your version of Russian roulette with a firearm, so if you don't mind.'

Killerman looked irritated and calculatingly moved the gun barrel minutely to the left. Pawser shuffled his chair to the right as far as his table legs would allow, just to be sure.

Dirk paused momentarily and looked at Killerman, the gun and then returned to hammering at his keyboard.

CW. This is the first part of a rough draft I have been working on for a while. It's set around Christmas so I decided to put it on. I'll put more on if there some interest.. ..Reviews would really help.


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